Nobody has time for work anymore, we just commute — four hours each way in our air-conditioned sex machines. Real objects have been given painted shadows so we remember what we’re here for: to know our place. The ayatollahs of sacred architecture instruct us to watch our feet as we walk & keep count of all our steps in a spiral-bound notebook. The forests may have gone away, but we can still plant flags in the cracked & peeling earth. I stop to admire a crowd of feathered dinosaurs bobbing their heads, closing in on that lady with the walker who’s scattering crumbs.
Dave Bonta (bio) often suffers from imposter syndrome, but not in a bad way — more like some kind of flower-breathing dragon, pot-bellied and igneous. Be that as it may, all of his writing here is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).